Chapter 4 #2
He wandered past a small bathroom, and a galley kitchen, stepping into a living room even more old-fashioned than the hall, with antimacassars on the furniture and yet more royal portraits on the wall.
A throw-covered armchair had pride of place in front of the telly, with a heaped ashtray balanced on one arm, next to a heavy, dark-wood sideboard that was home to a vast collection of china cat figurines.
So the sweary Victoria couldn’t be all bad.
It hadn’t been a big room to start with, but cramming in four police officers wearing the full MOE kit; another in plainclothes; a scruffy wee ogre, and his gargantuan Alsatian, made it seem positively minute.
Tufty was hauling at the doorknob through to what presumably was the flat’s second bedroom, twisting and turning it, heaving away to no avail while PD Branston had a jolly good sniff at the gap beneath the door. Making excited doggy noises.
Meanwhile, Steel glared at a sheepish Harmsworth. ‘What do you mean, you “left it on the landing”?’
A proper whine weaselled into Harmsworth’s voice. ‘Well, how was I supposed to know you wanted—’
‘Go!’ Jabbing a finger in his sweaty face. ‘Go get it! Now!’
They all had to shift sideways so Harmsworth could lumber from the room.
Logan watched him go. ‘Trouble?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’ Tufty hooked a thumb. ‘Charles MacGarioch hoofed it inside; locked the door.’
‘So kick it in. It’s only an internal partition.’
That got him a grin. ‘I does has being an action hero!’
Then Tufty took a couple of steps back and put some welly behind it – his boot slamming into the door, right beside the lock.
The whole thing boomed inwards, first go, and PD Branston surged inside, barking her furry-missile head off as Tufty scrambled after her. Then Steel. Then Logan.
Charles MacGarioch’s bedroom was much more modern than the old lady’s, with matt-black paint on the walls and lots and lots of posters: pop-star ladies in bikinis; Aberdeen Football Club; a bunch advertising video games like ‘DiRT 6’, ‘ASSASSINS’ CREED 5’, and ‘GTA: LONDON RAMPAGE’.
A trio of monitors hovered on arms above a small desk, with a PlayStation 4 and a complete steering-wheel~gearstick~pedals-under-the-desk setup. Single bed beneath the window. A little bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks. More on the windowsill.
And the almost cloying citrusy-woody fug of a young man who uses far too much deodorant.
The room also featured a man’s backside, disappearing through the open window. Not a good idea on the top floor of a three-storey building.
Charles Mountbatten MacGarioch had clearly suffered a haircut since the photo in the briefing notes was taken, swapping a perfectly sensible short-back-and-sides for a number-two fade with a go-faster stripe above each ear. Leaving the spots polka-dotting the back of his neck on full display.
He turned to look back at the police officers and big barky dog that had just invaded his childhood bedroom, giving them a good look at his wispy sideburns and beginner’s moustache-and-soul-patch kit.
Which gave him the air of a cut-priced Starlord from Guardians of the Galaxy.
Ripped jeans; red-and-white leather jacket; black, 4 Mechanical Mice T-shirt. Tears in his eyes.
Oh shite. He was going to jump wasn’t he.
Logan lunged forwards. ‘NO!’
Charles MacGarioch faced outward again, snatched a deep breath, and jumped. Screaming, all the way down . . .
Logan clambered up onto the single bed, sticking his head out the window just in time to see Charles hit the ground.
Only instead of going SPLAT!, he bounced – almost as high as he’d jumped. Still screaming. Arms and legs pinwheeling as he soared away from the building, clearing a washing-festooned whirly by at least ten feet, before crashing into a tree.
Branches and twigs snap-crackled as he tumbled through it, then thumped to earth, facedown, in a shivering blanket of falling leaves.
Tufty’s head appeared alongside Logan’s, then PD Branston joined in – tongue lolling as she grinned.
‘Wow . . .’ Tufty pointed. ‘Did you see that?’
Logan blinked. ‘But . . .?’
How was that even possible?
He stared down the back of the building and there was the answer: a large children’s trampoline, about twelve feet off to the right. That explained the ‘thud-adudadududa . . .’ noise. And the shrieking kids.
The kids were silent now, though. All standing around on the communal back lawn, staring at the tree Charles MacGarioch had just crashed through. Then up at the flat, and at the heads of Logan, Tufty, and Branson poking out of the window.
Actually hitting the trampoline from this distance, instead of the ground, had to be a one-in-a-hundred shot. Charles was bloody lucky he didn’t break his neck, and every other bone in his body.
Why did young men always think they were sodding invincible? Right up until the moment they got proved fatally wrong.
Tufty’s eyes were wide as soup bowls. ‘How cool was that?’
Charles MacGarioch wasn’t moving, though. So maybe not so lucky after all . . .
No – wait a minute.
There was a bit of a struggle, then he rolled over onto his back and lay there, grimacing up at the blue sky.
‘Boing!’ Tufty bounced on the mattress, making the bed frame creak. ‘From the top floor!’
Charles struggled to his knees, then his feet. Blinking and shaking his head – sending bits of tree tumbling out of his stupid haircut.
He’d landed just the other side of a shoulder-high fence that enclosed the back gardens, separating them from the path that ran behind a little shopping area and some small old-fashioned houses.
One hand against the chain link, he staggered off, breaking into a limping run.
‘Bloody hell.’ Logan scrambled off the bed and out of the room. ‘He’s getting away!’